


ease

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Gen, M/M, Magical Scars, Mostly Gen, Scars, Shippy Gen, Sickfic, post-episode, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22046539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: Jaskier may not have physical scars like Geralt, but he's not entirely unscathed.Following the djinn's attack, effects left by the old magic crop up now and again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 80
Kudos: 1659





	ease

“Wh–”

The sound dies mid-sentence, and that isn’t normal. Jaskier loves to talk almost as much as he loves the lute, women, and wine. And the shrill, rasping wheezes aren’t something Geralt’s like to forget anytime soon, imprinted fresh on his memory as they are. So Jaskier breaking off, short and sudden with his breath leaving his lungs in a whistle, gets full attention in a beat.

It does it again. “You–” Jaskier tries, but it comes out faltering, voice crackling and hoarse. He’s thinking of the past forty-eight or so hours, too, if that look on his face is anything to go by. Instantly panicked, a hand at his throat. “What’s happening?” he finally manages. It comes out a rasp. “What’s happen– Geralt–”

He doesn’t doubt Yennefer’s magic. Not a bit. He believes it with all his being, actually. She had promised his recovery and so Geralt believes that. Still… all told… it’s been quite the past two days, even for him.

“Lingering side effect,” he says, and thinks he says it with at least ninety percent certainty. It’s enough. He wouldn’t risk his life if he didn't think it was enough.

“From _who?”_ Jaskier whispers. “The djinn–”

 _“More_ likely from powerful magic being used directly on you,” Geralt interrupts. “Yennefer’s, not the djinn’s.” Although neither was probably beneficial to a human’s system… He’d leave that out. He didn’t want needless worry, and Jaskier needed to be _resting,_ anyway. “A temporary inconvenience. You’ll be fine.”

“How do you–”

“Well, if not, it’s a good thing me and Yen get on–” Truly, the urge to run the joke is tempting, but Jaskier’s staring at him with all dewy-eyed fear, and Geralt can still feel the limp weight of him against his back on the ride through Rinde and hear the death rattle in his ears and thinks they can’t go back there again. It isn’t worth joking. “You’ll be fine, bard. You just need rest.”

“Y–Yeah.” Jaskier swallows and winces, fingers feeling at his throat. “Sure…”

… shit, he hopes that won’t become a problem. For both of their sakes.

Jaskier slumps against the upended tree, removing hands from his throat to hold over the fire. They tremble a little, and the worry radiates in waves.

Faltering voice or not, Jaskier is the one to break the silence. “Can you– just, maybe–”

“What?”

“Just a thought–”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, too stern, and the bard breaks a little further. Just enough to say what he needs, as is the intention.

“– tea,” he mutters. “That– that one you made, be– before–”

Ah. Right. He had made that, once. “Fine,” he agrees, and stands to collect the bag of herbs. _“If_ you stop talking in the meantime.”

Jaskier nods, almost mockingly solemn. Then he mimes buttoning his lips, and puts his hands back over the fire.

Blessed silence won’t last long, but Geralt thinks he’s beginning to find discomfort in it, anyway.

  
  


“Hey.” He nudges the heel of his boot against the bard’s back. “Get up.” 

Unsurprising is the groan that follows– he was shit in the morning, Jaskier– but there’s something in the way he winds a little tighter in the bedroll, splays a hand to his chest. Geralt stops urging him awake, and contemplates. Sure, the man liked his sleep, but it _was_ well late and… not a peep. Hm.

“Jaskier. We’re late.”

“Yeah…”

Familiar hoarseness, faint but there. Geralt tries to think, and settles on “are you sick?” He doesn’t smell the sickness on him, but there is something… off, now that he’s focused on his consciousness.

The side effects had come and gone after the djinn’s attack, mostly with an inflamed throat now and again that Jaskier never failed to bemoan once he could speak properly again. It was from the touch of magic, Yen had agreed, and… had no particular treatment that Jaskier was willing to let her try. (Geralt expected this yet may change if a flare-up conflicted with a scheduled performance, but they had been, as he said, so far, so lucky.)

“No…”

“No.”

“I _hurt.”_ Words on a breath, as the bard rolls onto his back. And there are the pain lines at his eyes, fingers rubbing circles at his chest. Then he throws an arm over his eyes and manages to look simultaneously pathetic and in pain.

“You hurt,” Geralt repeats.

“Yes!”

_“How?”_

“How?”

 _“Where,”_ he stresses, because Jaskier is _very_ good at being… fussy, for a lack of another word when something goes awry. A feeling Geralt can’t imagine after everything he’s seen, but then again, small things to being human, he supposes.

“All over. Everything. Like…” Jaskier takes a shuddering breath, and Geralt watches his fingers constrict into his shirt. “… like before. When I was dying.”

Oh. “The djinn.” It makes sense. The infection, back then, _had_ been spreading, no wonder if the effects linger elsewhere than his voice.

“Yeah…”

“You’re not dying,” Geralt says, although the bard doesn’t seem particularly anxious and he isn’t sure whose benefit he says it for.

Jaskier just laughs, once, and then wheezes in pain, and writhes. “Sh–Shit… fuck. You sure?” 

“It’s been months, and we would have noticed a delayed onset curse. It’s just your side effects.”

He makes a tiny noise, of acknowledgment or pain.

“… alright.” They can’t stay here. Geralt kneels next to him, knows the only stock he has now is his own potions and that Jaskier needs a proper rest. “I’m taking you to the nearest inn.”

“No, I can…” He barely sits up before he pitches the rest of the way, and Geralt hauls him up and over a shoulder before he can argue further. _“Oh–”_

“I don’t have anything for you,” he says. “You’ll do better with humans right now, trust me.”

“Geralt–”

“Stay at the inn and I’ll… still give you the story when I come back. No adventuring required.” He has him. He doesn’t even have to wait for the pause of consideration.

“… if you say so,” Jaskier breathes, acquiesces, and he half sleeps against Geralt as they ride back to town.

  
  


“Back at it again, then?”

At this stage, it shouldn’t be surprising when Jaskier manages to look simultaneously pissed and miserable, but there’s still anger underlaid the agony, resigned and… weary. New scars of old magic that linger now, all Jaskier’s own. All Geralt’s fault, even.

He’s starting to sweat in the heat of the baths. “Completely gone this time?”

Jaskier sighs noiselessly, and nods.

“How long?”

He holds up two fingers.

Geralt sighs; it’s not the flare-ups that are uncommon, but the total loss of voice _is._ “Yen said there are things she can try on you–” Jaskier’s already shaking his head, wide-eyed and frantic. “What, still don’t trust her?”

Jaskier continues shaking his head, so vehement it ought to be offensive. And then he pauses, and looks contemplative, and then… just shrugs, a little. The look in his eyes fades back to that resigned weariness.

Geralt knows it’s taken its toll, over the years. It’s only in dire straits he hears about the lapses, and Jaskier looks especially run down today. Probably why he’d sent out an invitation when he’d heard Geralt was in town. The cancelled performance might have been part of the reason Geralt had decided to pass through in the first place.

Yes, he keeps an eye out. Someone has to.

Well, if he’s here, he might as well take advantage of the steam. He plucks at the laces at his shirt and gently prods at the bard’s situation. “Body aches again?”

Jaskier… shrugs, Geralt guesses, although it’s halfhearted and not really a shrug to begin with.

“What’s that even mean?”

He stares at Geralt, accusing.

“I can’t read your mind, Jaskier.”

He makes a face, then taps his knuckles to his head and makes a vague hand gesture.

Geralt sighs– in something like… fond amusement, he thinks– as he tosses his shirt aside. “I’ve already told you, Axii is for _influencing_ your mind, _not_ reading it. And I’ve only ever used it on you once. You can stop reminding me.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but he can’t elaborate, so Geralt pushes on.

“Right,” he says, taking a seat next to him. “You clearly aren’t in pain, you’d be more eager to share if you were. Just your voice, then.”

He shrugs, and then nods.

“Guessing that’s why you’re attached to the steam.”

Another nod.

“Is it helping?”

He flashes him a look that says _I’m not speaking, am I?_ Without needing the words at all. Maybe Geralt _can_ read his mind these days. A terrifying thought.

“Right,” Geralt says. “But the pain, in your throat. How is it?”

Another shrug. Yeah, he really doesn’t like this nonverbal Jaskier. Never got used to it. Probably never would. 

“You been drinking the tea?”

He nods. That’s something.

“Well, that’s a start. You need the vinegar.”

His nose wrinkles in disgust.

Sometimes, Geralt thinks, the only reason the bard wanted him near was to have someone to _complain_ to. (In this case, he knew it was fact. But that was fair, and his own penance.) Still, he can’t help joking, if only just. “Did you summon me to help, or just so you could turn your nose up at perfectly suitable treatments?”

He rolls his eyes, waving a hand.

“Sometimes, Jaskier, you _really–”_

He cuts Geralt off by leaning over, then, bracing his shoulder against Geralt’s arm. The touch of dampened skin, physical scars and those forever unseen. And in the motion is something so akin to the fear that had been stark on Jaskier’s face when he’d taken him to Chireadan years ago, and some things couldn’t change with time. And bards were emotional, there was no escaping that.

“… you _could_ be doing this with– with whoever you’re courting now, you know,” Geralt says eventually, joking in the way that he doesn’t know _if_ Jaskier’s courting anyone at the most current minute.

Jaskier glares, gestures to his mouth, and rolls his eyes.

“I dunno.” Geralt looks back ahead. “Not being able to sing m–” Jaskier shoves his shoulder harder into Geralt’s, and Geralt presses his lips together to smother the smile. “Just saying.”

Jaskier huffs, a pointed breath through his nose, but settles back in until the exhaustion stays him down again. He sinks a little lower, and leans in a little more.

Geralt lets him. “You’re resting, after this. Proper sleep. None of your fuckin’ around.”

Jaskier scoffs.

“I mean it.”

He sighs, again, and nods.

“You can do that, and I’ll take on my bounty.” Jaskier looks at him, curious. “There’s a request,” he explains, something he’d picked up in anticipation of sticking around for a few days. Coin to be had. “It’s just rotfiends, but there’s been several reports. Worth a solid perimeter check while I’m here, and it’s something in between making sure _you_ find your voice again.”

Jaskier’s smile was far too smug, but if he saw through the execution of the plan, he couldn’t laugh about it now, and Geralt would be moving on before he could outright accuse him of _caring._ Even as he did.

Jaskier nods again, and gets comfortable in the steam. When he nods off with his head on Geralt’s shoulder, Geralt, well…

He just lets him doze until it’s time to coax him home again.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn't how things work but you know what we have fanfic for a reason and the IDEA /clenches fists 
> 
> imagine Jaskier can FEEL magic after this, too. not necessarily like Geralt or Yen, but tingling at the hair on the back of his neck in place of strong magic. maybe he could feel it before but it's DIFFERENT now... it's dazzling and enrapturing and he wants to write a million songs but can't find the words. and in places of malicious intent, he gets sick, so sick, all of these scenarios combined and he remembers DYING, and the ptsd flares up again even after he's safe because what if he goes to sleep and doesn't wake up. what if Geralt doesn't save him. what if what if
> 
> (kind of what if here, too. in the last scenario. 'what if' this time is the time his voice doesn't come back at all. why he wants Geralt there, even if their witcher can't really do anything. he just needs that security. he wants to feel SAFE, even after the years pass and it keeps happening)
> 
> anyway I have feelings.
> 
> russian translation: [ https://ficbook.net/readfic/8949651 ](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8949651)Thank you, 17-18-09!


End file.
